by Joyce Cato
Jenny smiled grimly. ‘I’ll just bet that Lorcan didn’t feel particularly grateful about it,’ she muttered sardonically.
‘Oh well, you couldn’t expect him to, could you?’ Caroline agreed philosophically. ‘But I dare say that Tris, being the sort he is, was very happy to do it! Still, Lorcan will soon see that he’s better off without her. He’ll get over it. He probably already has, although he won’t admit it. Men can be so stubborn, where their pride is concerned, can’t they? Oh! Look at that! What did I tell you – he’s just bowled out Les,’ Caroline said with satisfaction, as the sound of a rather more robust round of applause came from outside.
‘Oh, well done, Lorcan!’ she yelled, making Ettie jump. Then added in a less carrying aside, ‘That’s it then – the whole lot out for … what’s the score, Ettie?’
Jenny, who (like Ettie, as it turned out) wasn’t particularly interested in the score, scooted back into the kitchen and began to gather up an army of cutlery. Sure enough, by the time she’d returned to the main room, the first of the men were coming in, and it was just gone half past three.
‘Wow, what a spread,’ she heard a male voice say admiringly, and felt a warm glow of satisfaction wash over her. She did so love it when people praised her food. It was the one thing that she never got tired of hearing.
‘Can’t wait to get tucked in to that lot,’ another agreed, even more enthusiastically.
‘We’d better get the tea urns on then, hadn’t we?’ Caroline Majors said crisply to Ettie, her friend. And Jenny, who wasn’t in charge of beverages, nevertheless offered to help the ladies.
As she did so, she happened to glance through the French windows in the kitchen, where something had just registered in her peripheral vision, and she saw Mark Rawley walk past again. As he did so, he cast a look over his shoulder as he went by, as if checking to see that nobody had noticed him.
So he’d come back, Jenny thought, and she went to the fridge to pour several pints of milk into some blue and white jugs. From the changing room, the sound of voices began to rise, as people began to eat, and socialize. She hoped that the young lad wasn’t about to gatecrash the party, but after a few slightly anxious minutes had passed, and there was no sign of trouble, she began to relax again.
She saw Erica leave her deck chair and greet a handsome, older man, who was so like his son in looks, that he could only be the errant Tristan’s father. So far she had yet to learn his first name. Of Tristan himself, there was still no sign, and Jenny wondered why he wasn’t already the life and soul of the party. She’d heard enough people praising him and the number of wickets that he’d taken to realize that he was likely to be voted the man of the match, and she judged him to be the kind who liked to revel in the limelight.
But it was hardly any of her business. She gave a mental shrug and checked the table. Most of the savouries were gone now, and people were starting on the sweet, but she went back for reinforcements of both and began plugging the gaps with more platefuls of food.
In her opinion, you could never have too much choice, although she had always found that it was the gentlemen in particular, who could be relied upon to demolish the desserts. The women, on the whole, tended not to have so much of a sweet tooth.
She accepted the lavish praise that came her way graciously, but she couldn’t help wonder if the doubting Mavis was amongst those congratulating her on the spread.
On the outskirts of the field, Marie Rawley moved silently along the hedge line, one eye on the people spilling into the pavilion for tea, the other on a look out for her father. The last thing she wanted was for James Cluley to buttonhole her and ask her what she was doing there. Because one thing was for sure – he’d know that she was hardly likely to be there to watch the match.
And if her father suspected that something was going on, he’d want to interfere – either to forbid her from doing anything at all, or try to muscle in and take over.
Luckily, her father was nowhere in sight, but she couldn’t see Mark anywhere, either, and that worried her. She just knew her son was up to something no good, and after that last bit of trouble they’d had with the police, the last thing she needed was more drama.
Which was why she’d decided to take matters into her own hands and sort it all out.
She glanced at her watch, and made her way slowly towards the pavilion, trying not to catch anyone’s eye as she did so and then slipped behind the building at the back. In the narrow space between it and the hedge-lined, chain-link fence separating it from the river beyond, she paused and bit her lip. Perhaps Mark was inside, stuffing his face? When all was said and done, he was still a teenage boy, and since he’d helped with getting the grounds ready, he would have felt he’d earned the right to help himself to a fabulous tea.
Perhaps his slipping out of the house had nothing more ominous behind it, than an urge to pig out? She hoped that was the case. But now that she was here, she wasn’t going to waste the opportunity of doing what she came for. A mother determined to protect her child at all costs would be up for anything – and patience was no big price to pay.
As it happened though, she didn’t have to wait very long at all.
Standing at the rear right-hand corner of the building, she saw her quarry begin to troop past on his way in to tea, and hissed out his name. He looked around, but it took him a moment to spot her, lurking behind the building. When he did, he looked surprised.
Imperiously, she beckoned him over. He frowned slightly, not being a man who was used to being treated in such a manner, but after a weary sigh and a brief moment’s thought, he supposed that he’d better go and see what the damned woman wanted.
She looked like she was ready to make a scene if she didn’t get her own way, and right now that was the last thing the Lord of the Manor wanted. Sir Robert Jones sighed wearily.
Ten minutes later, Jenny had just put the last but one batch of Bakewell tarts onto the table, when she glanced outside, and through the far left changing room window saw the curly head of Tris Jones. Beside him, in very close proximity indeed, was the blonde head of Michelle Wilson. So close were they in fact, that it was clear to Jenny that the pair wouldn’t have been able to place a matchstick between them.
She turned from the table, and as she did so, caught sight of the boy’s stepmother and her husband, the erstwhile Lord of the Manor, staring out of the same window. Erica instantly turned to say something to the man at her side, and in response, Jenny saw Tris’s father turn and scowl at him. Not that his son noticed the fraternal disapproval being sent his way, of course. He was far too busy flirting with his pretty companion. And no doubt he’d probably have been oblivious to it, if he had noticed his father’s ire.
Another person who’d also noticed the close proximity between his wife and her handsome companion was Max Wilson. But, Jenny noted with some surprise, he simply turned to the man he’d been chatting to, and, waving an apple and sultana finger to underscore whatever point he was making, carried on talking as if he’d seen nothing amiss.
Only the gleam in his eye, and the slightly twisted smile on his lips, told her that he wasn’t feeling half so sanguine about the situation as he was trying to make out.
Jenny again shook her head and returned to her kitchen. She needed a cup of tea and a scone, but would make do with just the tea, for now. There’d be time for her to eat after the match had resumed, and before she and any willing helpers had cleared away the tables.
‘All right, ten minutes, everyone.’ She heard one of the cricket captains call out the warning, and there was the usual disconcerted stampede for the toilets, which quickly formed into good-natured queues. Jenny smiled to herself, and sipped her tea.
After nearly twenty minutes had passed, only a few of the older players still lingered in the changing rooms, reluctant to move so soon on such full stomachs. Besides, now that Steeple Clinton was batting, most of the team could simply sit or loiter about on the sidelines and watch and take it easy, un
til it was their turn to bat.
Erica was back once again in her deck chair just inside the door, whilst Caroline and Ettie began to stack the empty plates.
Tris Jones, Jenny saw with a smile, was hastily stuffing himself on the leftovers, and he winked at her over a strawberry scone, packed high with clotted cream and her raspberry jam.
‘Very nice,’ he said, but his eyes were on her, rather than on her food. His gaze was clear and openly salacious, and in a way, she found his uncomplicated sexual invitation entertaining, rather than insulting.
Again, she grinned widely at him. If she’d been the type to want an uncomplicated, one-off bout of recreational sex, she had to acknowledge that she probably couldn’t do any better.
‘On your way, sonny,’ she muttered under her breath, but nevertheless, just loud enough for only him to hear her.
He grinned cheekily, taking the rejection in good part and moving off, still champing down on the last of his scone as he did so and snitching another one, which he took with him. She saw him blow a teasing kiss to his stepmother as he passed by her, and Jenny glanced at her watch. Time to start making good on the buffet supper.
She knew that all the men would enjoy barbecuing the meat – so she had made sure to provide them with the usual chicken legs, her homemade Cumberland sausages, Oxford herb sausages and her special chilli-flaked beef burgers. Men’s affinity with the barbecue meant that she’d have a lot of the cooking taken off her hands, which, after a hard day’s baking, was no bad thing.
Of course, she already had most of the bread baked, but she’d need to get started on some flatbreads to add to the tally. Vast salads could be assembled in no time of course, but she needed to start supplementing the trifles with some more desserts.
She checked the tea tables, not surprised to see that nearly all of the food had gone. Nevertheless she hastily tagged a Bakewell tart and bit into it. Made with proper apricot jam, of course. Not the raspberry jam which supermarkets would have you believe was the traditional filling.
‘It was all smashing, Miss Starling,’ Caroline Majors said, still stacking empty, crumb-laden plates. ‘Everyone said so. Even Mavis, and she always thought that nobody’s Victoria sponge could match her own.’
Ettie groaned. ‘Oh, that Victoria sponge. I had three pieces. I couldn’t help myself.’
‘Please, won’t you call me Jenny?’ Jenny asked Caroline, and promised, once the buffet supper was over, to give both women a generous ‘doggie bag’ of goodies to take back home with them. (But she was careful not to offer the recipe for her sponge cake. Some things she intended to take to the grave – be she accused of selfishness, or not.)
In her deck chair by the door, Erica sighed wearily at the plebeian level of the conversation around her, and rose elegantly from her supine position. ‘Just have to pop to the loo a minute,’ she said vaguely as she wafted past them. As she did so, she couldn’t help but give Ettie’s rounded figure a quick sneer as she went through, and behind her back, Caroline somewhat childishly stuck her fist up to her nose and wiggled her fingers at the elegant redhead’s departing back.
Ettie giggled.
Jenny pretended not to notice, and began to fill a plate with one or two little nibbles for herself. After all – she was entitled. She’d been baking like a demon all day.
Out on the green, the match went on at its own leisurely pace, with Much Rousham now batting. Max Wilson, as captain, was first to bat.
It was quarter to five.
‘Tris, I want a word with you.’
Tristan Jones, leaning against the left-hand side of the pavilion wall, and nonchalantly eating his wonderful strawberry scone with lashings of clotted cream and jam, licked one of his sticky fingers, and eyed his father with a lazy grin that hid his wariness.
‘Well, here I am, Pater dearest, so feel free to bend my ear as much as you like,’ he drawled, mocking his father’s naturally upper-class accent ruthlessly, whilst waving his half-eaten scone in the air. ‘Mind if I carry on munching on the old nosebag whilst you witter on? A fellow needs to feed before going out to commence battle.’
Robert Jones flushed angrily. ‘Stop playing the clown for once. If you realized just how pretentious you sound when you try to be smart, you’d stop it quickly enough. Haven’t you heard that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?’
Tris sighed, and bit down hard on the scone, getting a dab of cream on the end of his nose for his trouble. It was a pity, he mused, that Michelle wasn’t here. She could have licked it off for him.
Or Tracey, for that matter, the little dental hygienist that he’d spent the night with. Or had her name been Stacey? He sighed and with the back of his hand, wiped his nose clean.
‘So, what’s up?’ he asked, knowing that there was little point arguing with his old man when he’d got his dander up like this.
And one look at Sir Robert’s flushed face told his only son that he was in the patriarchal bad books yet again. It wasn’t, to be honest, a particularly rare occurrence, and he knew from past experience that it was best to just let him get it off his chest. It could be nothing more than the usual rant about him needing to settle down and produce a son and heir. But he rather thought, eyeing his father’s particularly bellicose eye, that it was more than that.
‘I’ll have you know that I’ve just had some irate woman ranting in my ear about you getting her boy into trouble.’
Tris blinked, then laughed. ‘I rather doubt it, Daddy dearest. Surely that’s biologically impossible? Besides, I’m straight as a die, you know that. Boys definitely aren’t my thing.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ Robert hissed. ‘I’m talking about that Rawley boy.’
Tris sighed theatrically. ‘Mark? No need to worry about him,’ he dismissed casually. ‘The boy’s just had to learn some hard facts of life and he’s still reeling about it. He’ll pick himself up and dust himself off. You’ll see.’
His father stared at him witheringly. ‘That’s not what his mother says. She’s scared witless that he’s going to get himself into some serious trouble with the law, or something. Just what the hell’s going on? She seemed to think I knew all about it, but I hadn’t the faintest idea about half of what she said. But according to her, the boy’s only seventeen. Please tell me you haven’t been handling his money without parental consent?’
‘Of course not!’ Tris said, beginning to get angry. ‘How daft do you think I am? If you must know, the boy’s grandfather approached me. He wanted to put Mark through university – and quite right too. The boy’s bright. Unfortunately, since they raised the tuition fees, he didn’t have quite enough to do it, and he wanted my advice about how to invest his savings in order to get the best return in the short term. Even with a gap year, Mark would have to start a course in eighteen months or so.’
Robert Jones groaned. ‘Don’t tell me. You told him to invest in—’ He suddenly paused, realizing he was about to break a cardinal rule of his business, and talk freely about stocks and shares in a public place. Instead, he waved a hand briskly. ‘I take it whatever you advised didn’t work out?’
Tris shrugged. ‘Unfortunately not. What can I tell you – it should have done, but the old man was just plain unlucky. And before you start, I told him all about the risks, and I advised him not to invest the whole lot but spread his investments. I even went out of my way to explain to him about government bonds and blue chip stock, even though the paltry few thousand he had to invest wouldn’t even merit the interest of one of our interns. I only did it as a favour to Mark. The boy looks up to me. Looked up to me, I should say, since I’m out of favour with him at the moment.’
Robert shook his head. ‘Well, get his mother off our backs, will you? If you ask me, she’s unhinged. And that’s not all. I’ve had Matthew on to me again,’ Robert swept on, mentioning the senior partner in the law firm that they used to oversee their legal affairs. ‘He’s had yet another complaint about you.’
Tris sighed. ‘Oh for Pete�
�s sake, let me guess. This is about Fairweather Double Glazing?’ He named a firm who had lost big when the market had taken an unexpected downturn at close of day yesterday. ‘I told the Dorset people those shares will be up again within a fortnight. All they’ve got to do is hold on to them and keep their nerve. They only need babysitting along, and soon they’ll be all smiles again. Surely Matthew is up for that? If not, pass the account on to Lorcan. He’s good at babysitting nervous investors. That bland-as-milk way he has about him always settles upset tummies.’
Robert Jones shook his head, exasperated. ‘No, it’s not about them. But from what you’re saying, I daresay I’ll have them bending my ear first thing on Monday as well. This is Piers Mountjoy I’m talking about.’
‘Oh that little twit,’ Tris said carelessly. ‘A real mummy’s boy, that one. He’s inherited so much money he doesn’t know what to do with it, but he’s desperate to be seen as a competent financial manager. He wants the rest of the family to believe that he’s going to double the family fortunes. I told him that what he really needed was to spread the risk with a fairly conservative mix, but he would insist on a highly speculative portfolio. He only saw the profits to be made, and totally ignored the risks. Don’t let him worry you.’
‘Not worry me? You’ve lost the man millions!’ Robert then quickly shot a look around, in case anyone had overheard this extremely indiscreet outburst. Luckily no one had. Whilst stocks and shares and wheeler-dealing was his lifeblood, most of the people there today were more interested in the cricket.
Tristan saw his father’s worried look, and felt suddenly sorry for the old man. It must be awful to get old and lose your nerve. ‘Relax, Pater, you’ll worry yourself into a heart attack. Or worse. Piers is a pussycat. He’ll just huff and puff but he won’t cause us real any trouble. He wouldn’t dare.’
‘Tris, he’s threatening to sue!’ Robert said, frustrated almost beyond endurance.